


Rekindling

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Family, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Reconciliation, Sappy, shamelessly adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 20:32:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12801807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: There’s a strange man at breakfast with Oswald. Martin isn’t too sure about him at first.





	Rekindling

**Author's Note:**

> I just love the tiny penguin and I wanted to write something short.
> 
> Big thank you to Flux for being a wonderful beta. <3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~R

Martin scribbles a question mark onto his notepad and holds it up to the Penguin.

“Yes,” Oswald says impatiently when he looks up from his breakfast. Then he glances at Martin’s face. “No. Yes. What?”

Martin frowns concentratedly and brings the notepad toward himself again, adding “who” above the question mark.

“Ah.” Oswald frowns back this time. “I’m afraid it’s a long story, Martin, and one perhaps not suited to ears as young as yours.”

The other man returns to the dining room with a quietly confident stride, before halting abruptly when he sees Martin. “Oswald? Is that…”

“My ward, Martin,” Oswald informs him. “Martin, this is…Ed.”

Martin’s nose scrunches up and he frowns a little harder. He holds his notepad up indicatively, waving it a little in front of Oswald’s face.

“An old friend,” Oswald says finally, and then seems to catch himself. “Rather, I—no, Martin, I didn’t…”

Martin’s hand is crawling not-so-subtly toward the knife next to his place setting.

“Martin!” Oswald snaps, sharply. “Hastiness is not a virtue!”

“Not much you do can be counted as virtuous,” says the other man, but his voice is amused and not condescending. “Still…”

“Martin, there is no danger here,” Oswald insists, firmly. He places his hand on Martin’s shoulder; the most physical contact either is likely to initiate. “I spoke hastily. I meant that he is an old…ally, and, I rather hope…”

“Oswald,” the other man says quietly.

Oswald seems to struggle for a moment, like he does when he’s angry and trying not to yell. His mouth moves, going from a frown to a smile and back, and his eyes blink rapidly. “…rather hope we may yet be allies again some day,” he finishes in a rush, and claps Martin’s shoulder companionably before turning back to his breakfast, determinedly not looking at the other man.

With an air of uncertainty, the man makes his way into the room and sits down opposite of Oswald. Martin picks up his knife and holds it in his fist, the _right_ way, the way Oswald taught him, and stares at the man.

Several minutes of near-silence pass, broken only by the sound of Oswald chewing, until the man speaks.

“You’re certainly…” the man tips his head to the side. “You take after him.”

“I must admit,” Oswald says through a mouth full of pancake, “his schemes of revenge were rather more _evolved_ than mine were at his age. I didn’t attempt _arsony_ until at least—twelve, I think it was.”

Martin sits up a little straighter at the praise. He glances over to Oswald and, seeing that he is apparently relaxed enough to keep his eyes off of the man, deigns to release his knife. It clatters to the table and he picks up his fork again, scooping up a pile of scrambled eggs.

The man doesn’t seem very interested in his breakfast; he leans his chin on the palm of his hand and says idly: “You like it here with Oswald, then?”

Martin nods vigorously as he shoves a forkful of eggs drenched in syrup in his mouth. The man grimaces briefly, then continues: “How old are you?”

Setting his fork down, Martin holds up nine fingers.

“Are you in school?” the man pursues, and Martin nods again. “What’s your favorite subject?”

“Let the boy _eat_ , Ed,” Oswald breaks in, exasperated, but Martin is already writing “math” on his notepad.

“That was one of my favorites!” the man says brightly. “Not too many people like it, do they?”

Martin shakes his head.

“Ed—”

The man takes a bite of his pancake hastily.

They do finish breakfast, a little later than usual. Oswald begins to scowl as the time gets later, and he keeps looking at the clock with a furious expression. The man doesn’t seem to notice, but it takes him twice as long to eat his breakfast as it does Martin.

Finally, Oswald sets his fork down with a clatter and rises to his feet, collecting all of their plates. When the man tries to help him, Oswald waves him off. “Least I could do,” Oswald says dismissively. “After all…we’re burying the hatchet. And as your host, this is my responsibility.” And with a bitter, not-at-all happy smile, he disappears into the kitchen.

Martin stares after him, a furrow in his brow.

“Martin,” the man says, and Martin looks over at him. “Even if he doesn’t say it…” the man frowns a little, like he’s thinking, then continues: “…Oswald loves you. Okay? Don’t forget that.”

Martin fiddles a little with his notepad, looking down.

“Really. It’s…he’ll do anything for you. Okay, Martin? He can…be your father, if you want him to. Not that you have to. I just mean…” the man sighs and looks down. He seems sad.

Hurriedly, Martin picks up his pen and makes a drawing. He turns it around to show the man.

“A house?” he asks quizzically.

Martin purses his lips and brings the notepad back to him, adding a heart floating next to the house.

“A home,” the man says. His voice is quiet and a little shaky. Martin nods. “Yeah, this is your home,” the man confirms. He sounds lonely. Martin points at him.

“Me?” the man asks. “Oh, no, I—no, Martin, I’m not staying. I—I—” He lifts a hand to his face and goes quiet suddenly. Then he inhales, sharp. “This used to be my home, Martin, when Oswald and I were allies. We both…betrayed each other, and I can’t imagine he’d want me here now. Again. After all that.”

Martin discards the top paper and makes another quick drawing: it’s difficult to get the point across, but, semi-satisfied, he turns his notepad to face the man.

The man _gasps_ like he’s been hurt; Martin jumps in his chair. He turns the picture back toward himself frowning. There’s an Oswald with spiky hair and a cane, and a The Man, tall. They’re holding hands. Martin turns it back to the man, interrogative.

“I… _wish_ that were the case, Martin,” the man says. “You don’t know—if there was a way—but it’s too late. The most I can ever have is—” he cuts himself off abruptly and looks down at Martin with wide eyes. “—er, I—we can only be…‘allies,’” he finishes uncertainly.

Another question mark on the notepad. Martin puts time into it, making it bold and determined.

“Even _if_ he was willing to try… _how_ could he ever trust me again?” the man whispers.

A heart.

The man laughs, and wipes away tears. Martin watches him a little warily. “Martin, we _were_ friends. He betrayed me, and I betrayed him. We stabbed each other in the back, and—and—I may have forgiven him, but I nearly _killed_ him, and…I don’t know if he would ever forgive _me_. As much as I may hope for it, someday.”

“ _Ed_.”

With a quiet gasp the man covers his mouth with his hand. Martin looks up at Oswald, who’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his hand covering his own mouth, eyes glossy and shining.

“Ed?” Oswald whispers, pulling his hand away to let the soft word escape.

“Sorry,” the man says quickly. He wipes his face with his sleeve. “I’ll go.”

But before he can leave, Oswald snatches him by the forearm. “Ed, are you—did you mean that?”

“What?” the man asks tearfully, and then immediately: “ _Yes_.”

And without another word Oswald yanks the man closer and presses their lips together. Martin shuts his eyes and sticks out his tongue.

“Martin,” Oswald says after a moment. “Thank you. I’m sorry. We’ve stopped,” and there’s an upward curve to his voice, like a smile.

Martin blinks open his eyes to see both Oswald and the man peering down at him with smiles. “We, um—how would you feel about Mr. Penn taking you to school, today?” Oswald asks, and Martin frowns. “Or…Ed could come with us in the limo?” Oswald suggests tentatively, and Martin straightens up.

“Good,” Oswald concludes. “Go upstairs and get ready, then, I believe we’re running late.”

Ed reaches over to pat Martin’s head, a little oddly. “Thank you, Martin,” he says.

Martin shrugs at him and grins before racing upstairs to his bedroom.


End file.
